Call It Love
by Thrice Written
Summary: In college, Al gave his heart away. Fifteen years later, long after the fling has ended, he's an acknowledged member of the upper-middle class with a lovely wife and daughter. He's living the life. But something tells him that this isn't where he's supposed to be, and a certain someone seems to share his feelings. Can either of them find a way to fit an old flame into a new life?
1. Nostalgia

_**Call It Love**_

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One: **Nostalgia**

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_Present_

The languid summer heat at the lakehouse always made Al dream.

Last year, around the same time, he'd given Eliza a diamond ring for their tenth anniversary. He'd gone to great lengths to make sure it would be a surprise; not even Katie, their daughter, could have guessed that Daddy had snuck out to the jewelry store when he was supposed to be buying groceries and spent an hour looking at all the diamonds, carefully examining all the different cuts and colors, picking out a band, and finally bringing it home a few weeks later in a little velvet box. The outcome couldn't have been better: a cushion cut diamond in a crown-shaped setting on a silver band, surrounded on both sides by three round, smaller diamonds in a leaf pattern. The gems themselves were lovely and bright, the design of the ring simple but charming. Eliza's eyes had watered over in a rare moment of sentimentality, and that night, they made love on open sheets, his hands in her long brown hair and her lips on his smooth shoulder, two empty glasses of red wine gleaming on the nightstand, moonlight cooling on their skin. He held her in his arms afterwards, and she pressed her ear to his chest, and it was like time hadn't moved beyond their honeymoon, or even beyond their first few years of dating.

And yet, even as she'd drifted to sleep, and the air stilled with the lateness of the hour, he felt deep in his flesh that he was . . . misplaced. That some power up above had played the wrong hand at the wrong time, or possibly the wrong hand at the right time. That he was a piece in a puzzle that connected together just fine, but was the wrong design—puppies instead of kittens and roses instead of daisies. He had hazy, half-formed thoughts of another life that could have been his, where he would be living in a neat bungalow instead of a one-point-two million-dollar house, saving up for a few cats and a new cast-iron skillet instead of a second jet ski, maybe have one car instead of three (the third was a vintage 1969 Dodge Camaro that Al had had his eye on for years and took out to get a tune-up regularly, but couldn't bear to drive on a daily basis). Katie was the apple of his eye, but in this other life, he couldn't imagine having children or a wife like Eliza—bold, outspoken, beautiful Eliza with her olive eyes and generous hips and ambitious career path in law. There would be someone else instead, someone who had fine-boned but strong hands, who would read a novel while Al made dinner and use an old-fashioned typewriter to compose poems instead of drawing up legal documents on a laptop. Someone who looked homely and warm in hand-knit sweater vests and house slippers. Someone who was always _there_ and knew just what to say and felt just right even when he wasn't doing anything special.

_He._

What was a passing fancy, Alfred wondered, and what was real love? How could one tell the difference? If one still thought about that other person even fifteen years later and dreamed about him at night and saw him at unexpected moments of the day, out of the corner of one's eye, only to turn back a second later and realize that it was someone else, a shadow . . . was that love, or just old memories coming back to life, tugging at heartstrings because they wanted to be remembered?

Al could never find the answer to any of his questions, just like he couldn't erase his old relationship, no matter how he tried, and he had come to accept that fact over the years, married man that he was. But was it normal to miss the scent of chamomile and lemon tea even when he walked past rows of teas and tea bags on his way to pick up coffee for Eliza every time he went to the store? Was it natural to experience a flash of warmth whenever he saw knitting needles next to a ball of yarn, even when they belonged to Grandma Katarina, his testy mother-in-law and Katie's namesake? Was it conventional to smile at a half-eaten granola bar, even when it was in someone else's hand?

If only he could take his life apart and rearrange the pieces, reassemble the puzzle the correct way. But what was the correct way? And how could he be thinking like this when he was living the American Dream, the lifestyle that anyone else would kill to have?

What more was there?

Al took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt, and put them back on again. He sighed. He had no idea what had gotten into him. Fifteen years down the line with success staring him in the face at every turn and a wonderful family, and here he was, wishing for the crazy, reckless passion of his college days.

_I must be getting old_, he thought. _I'm turning into a thirty-six-year-old old man. _He had to smile at himself.

It occurred to him, rather suddenly, that he could call. Pick up his smartphone, dial some numbers, and reforge a connection. Talk like friends, share some stories, do some catching up. Maybe meet up for a drink or two, if he was in the area. All of the basics.

_That's all right, Alfred. I'll teach you all of the basics, and we can go from there._

The words made him jump, and he started to look around in surprise, but then he realized that they were only in his head. There was no one there except him and his steadily flushing face.

He hadn't been called Alfred in years. He hadn't thought of that voice in even longer; and since that was the case, he hadn't imagined that when he did, it would come back to him with such vividity. It had to be the summer heat, getting to his head. Yes, that was what it was—the heat. He needed some cold water splashed on his face, a talk or two with his wife, and then he would come to his senses and they would enjoy the rest of their vacation in the company of their daughter and some good champagne. They could go out in the boat tomorrow. It would be eighty, if not more, and sunny. No clouds in sight.

He was aware of, yet blind to, the fact that he would have to make a choice sooner or later. Even though he was settled, content, well on track for the rest of his life . . . there were possibilities. Many of them. And sooner or later, he would have to acknowledge that he was the only one who could decide whether or not to do anything about them.

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**A/N: Trying out a new overall format for this story, so no more unnecessary pairing spoilers, no more warnings (not that this story really needs any), less fluff in the author's notes, etc. On that note, I'm back with new material! Hope you guys bear with me as I get back into writing fanfiction - I'm really rusty after virtually zero practice in the past who knows how many months.**

**If you have any questions about any of my other works (such as whether or not I intend to continue them), I would appreciate it a lot if you PMed me instead of commenting about them in a review here. As always, I welcome you to share your thoughts about the story itself! This is just a beginning, and a rather short one at that, but I'll have more in store for you in the future. Happy writing!**


	2. Chances

_**Call It Love**_

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Two: **Chances**

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_Present_

Three-thirty in the morning, and Arthur was pacing from the living room to the kitchen to the front door and back, his heart thudding furiously in his chest. He hardly knew what he was doing; as he went faster and faster, the carpet under his feet lost its texture and the apartment around him lost its warmth. He was alone in a vacuum filled with nothing but the emotions stinging his eyes and souring his mouth like lemon juice in a wound. His phone was dead weight in his hand, and sleep was as far away from him as it could get.

Finally, there was a clicking sound, and he whirled to face the front door just in time to see Chantal, his fiancée, creep in. She startled at the sight of him, then stubbornly lowered her head and began to take off her shoes without uttering a word.

"Close the door," Arthur said, his voice coming out hard and angry. He didn't bother to reign it in.

She ignored him. Her fingers plucked at the straps of her black Jimmy Choo stilettos with silent resentment. Her sleek dress, courtesy of Versace, clung to her hips and rode up in the back as she bent over. Arthur noted that it was so short that he could see she hadn't bothered to put on so much as a thong underneath. Her tanned ass winked at him before she straightened again, tugging at the hem of the dress and throwing her wavy hair over her shoulder. She reminded him of a show horse coquetting for the judges, especially when she stuck out a bare foot and kicked the door shut behind her with a _bang_. The same big, horsy temper in a sweet, petite body.

Arthur knew there was no point in beating around the bush, not when this spiral out of control had started months ago, but he wanted to give her one last chance. To give himself one last chance. To give their life together—whatever was left of it—one last chance. He had no idea if she felt the same way; actually, he highly doubted that she did, given her attitude and her actions. But he had to try. After all, time still meant something to him.

"Where were you?" he asked.

Chantal fixed him with a glare. "Out," she said, her lips puckering around the syllable in a perfect O. Petulant, childish. The thirteen-year gap between them widened slightly, a hairline fracture, almost undetectable but just as painful as the break in a real bone. They might as well have been speaking two different languages, living on opposite ends of the universe.

Arthur met her sharp blue eyes, hiding the sinking feeling in his core. "Out?"

"Out," Chantal repeated. She let her purse swing free of her shoulder and caught it with her hand. "I went _out_, and now I'm tired, so I'm going to bed." There was a heavy, forceful emphasis on every one of her words. She might as well have said it out loud: _It's none of your business. Don't talk to me._

But it was either now, or never. "Where did you go out to?"

Her eyes flashed at him. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer; he thought she would spin her hourglass figure around and walk right out of the living room and leave his words to hang like icicles in the air. But instead, she just sighed with annoyance and let her purse drop to the floor, the straps collapsing in on themselves.

"Where do you think? It's the middle of the goddamn night, Arthur. Where do you think I went?" Chantal gestured at herself. First up, then down, in sarcastic slow motion. "Do you think I dolled myself up to go grocery shopping? Do you think I went to buy some milk or broccoli or some shit? Come on, you're supposed to be a genius, aren't you? Use your brain. You tell me: where did I go?" She took a step toward him, stumbled over her discarded heels, and caught herself on the edge of the shoe rack. She had obviously been drinking—not enough to get herself really smashed or to slur her words, but enough to throw off her coordination.

Any other night, Arthur would have let her be. He would have backed off, let her retreat to the guest room and listened to the click and clatter of her bedtime routine, the creak of the springs as she threw herself down on the guest bed instead of sliding under the covers with him. If it had been earlier days, he might have even lent her a hand, helped her—and guided her—back to their bedroom and made sure she got her rest. Hell, if she pulled something like this when they had just started dating, he would have done more than that. A lot more. And they would have thoroughly enjoyed it, and there would be smiles and sly looks and little kisses in the morning instead of sullen silence.

But that wouldn't happen, not anymore, not after everything else. Now, for all Arthur knew, she could have been up and down every nightclub and every bar and every man's dick in the city before pulling down her slutty skirt and strutting home. She could be moonlighting as a stripper. She could even be a prostitute, some old, rich CEO's sugar baby. Suddenly, Arthur realized that he didn't even feel jealous. If anything, he felt alone. He looked at the beautiful, sexy girl with the ombre hair and slim legs and firm breasts standing in front of him, the very same girl he had shared cocktails, romantic dates, and hot, passionate sex with for the past three years, and he felt like the loneliest person on the planet.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Regret and relief flooded his bones. "You went clubbing, didn't you?"

Chantal just laughed, a pitched, mocking sound that echoed around the room. _She's not even ashamed of what she's done_, Arthur thought. _She skipped out on her fiancé—me—to go drink and party it up with other guys. We're going to get married, and she did all that without a second thought. Just like Francis, that disgusting casanova. _And Arthur found himself wondering why he was surprised by the striking similarities between the two. They were brother and sister, for Christ's sake. What had he expected? That somehow Chantal would be a perfect angel when her own brother would fuck a man one night, a woman another, and then smoke a cigarette with both the next day before heading home to kiss his pregnant wife?

"You know," Chantal said, "you used to make me so hot. Your accent, your eyes, your hands—everything. You knew what to say to get me to want you. You knew what to do to make me burn up. When Francis first introduced you, I thought you'd be boring, but God, you were fantastic in bed after a few drinks. Fantastic enough to make me want to marry you, you know? Do the dirty with you every day for the rest of my life, three times a day. Booze and sex, all week long." She laughed again. "Fuck, you made me think I was in love. That's why I said yes, back then. But now—" Her hand flicked at him dismissively. "It's all used up. You're like all the life got sucked out of you. _C'est dommage_ . . . I don't even want to get in bed with you anymore, you're so dead."

"So none of what we had before meant anything to you?" Arthur followed her as she walked into the guest room, and stood in the doorway. He didn't know why he was still pursuing her, why he was still looking for an answer when she'd already given it to him. _Old habits die hard_, he thought.

Chantal gave him a sideways look, and sneered, "All I know is that I can hear the music, and it's really damn loud. Go back to bed, Arthur, and leave me alone." Despite her tone, he could have sworn he saw pity in her eyes for a split second before she shut the door in his face.

Arthur went slowly back to his bedroom, dropped down on the bed, and laid an arm over his face. He wished he'd never met Chantal. He wished he'd never gone after her in an attempt to relive the happiness he'd had at age twenty.

The thought of that happiness temporarily froze him with nostalgia and longing, and he knew it should have been a thing of the past now, a fling that lasted a few years but wasn't meant to endure forever. And yet, now that he was in the right mindset, he still hoped. Would _he_ still remember him, if he happened to call this lonely night? Arthur didn't even know where he'd gone off to, what had become of him in the years since they parted. He was probably married by now, with lots of children . . . providing for the family that Arthur would never have. And Arthur, whose prospects had worsened as he aged, had only Chantal, a capricious, self-centered girl who had seen past the novelty of his Britishness to his diminishing vigor and wanted nothing more to do with it.

Did he still have a chance? Arthur stared at his phone on the nightstand. His mind was fifteen years away, back in the past.

_Do I still have a chance?_


End file.
